Kiss the Cook
by Madame Atomic Bomb
Summary: Dean wants to bake a pie. Cas is determined to help. Fluffy Destiel ficlet.


"I don't understand."

Dean looked up from the cookbook propped up on the countertop and stared at Cas, who was standing in the middle of the bunker's kitchen, looking completely, awkwardly out of place. Dean hitched a hip up against the counter and fought back a smile as he spied the apron the angel had slung on over top of his tan trench coat. The smile didn't quite reach his lips, but it crinkled the corners of his eyes.

"Understand what, Cas?"

"Why do you have to 'Kiss the Cook'?" he said, and gestured to the slogan written across his apron in bright pink, accompanied by a silk-screened lipstick print. His eyes narrowed a little as he cocked his head to the side. "It feels like a command. Semi-non-consensual gratuities are should not be required for the exchange of food."

Dean's shoulders shook with silent laughter. "It's just a saying. Like, 'eat at Joe's' or something. Who's Joe? Nobody knows! Just some schmuck."

Cas nodded. "I knew a Joe once."

"You did? What happened to him?"

"He raised the son of God."

Dean's eyebrows rose. "All right then. Anyway, the apron looks good, man. The pink really, uh, brings out your eyes."

"Thank you," Cas said, either missing the laugh in Dean's voice, or ignoring it on purpose. "I still don't understand why we need to bake a pie. They sell them in grocery stores. I've seen it."

Dean shrugged and turned back to his cookbook. "I don't know. I guess since we've got this bunker, with this fully stocked kitchen…seems a shame not to use it, you know? I've never really had an oven. Might be fun to try it out. I mean, how hard can it be?"

"I've never baked before," the angel said, coming up to the counter and standing at Dean's elbow. He glanced at the cookbook. "But when I was human, I liked the taste of pie. There was a diner right around the corner from the gas station where I worked. I liked the cherry pie the best."

Dean glanced at Cas out of the corner of his eye, noting the small smile on Cas' mouth, as if remembering the taste of the pie fondly. He'd complained about nothing tasting the same any longer since he'd gotten some of his grace back. Dean couldn't imagine what not being able to eat would be like.

He loved food, just like he loved sex, loud music and fast cars. There were just some things a man couldn't give up.

"What a coincidence. Cherry's my favorite too," he said as they bent over the cookbook together. "I already made the dough. It's been chilling for about an hour. Get it out of the fridge for me?"

Cas got a bowl with two balls of chilled dough in it out of the fridge and set it down beside him.

"Rolling pin?" Dean asked, and Cas reached for it. When Dean went to take it from him, Cas pulled it back.

"May I? You got to make the dough, after all," Cas said.

"Help yourself," Dean said, tossing a few handfuls of flour onto the counter. When he Cas reached for the dough with his bare hand, he stopped him. "Whoa, whoa! Wash your damned hands first! I don't know where you've been!"

"I've been here this whole time," Cas said, looking confused. "My hands are clean."

"I don't know that! You coulda been digging at your angel crack for all I know!" Cas looked annoyed, but diligently washed his hands, then turned back to the dough. Dean watched in amusement as Cas rolled the dough out flat, a little smile on his face.

Together they put the pie together, shoved it into the oven and then waited until the timer made a loud _ding!_ noise. The smell of cherries filled the air, but beneath it was the acrid tang of something gone wrong…

"Shit!" Dean exclaimed as he pulled the pie out using oven mitts.

"I don't think it's supposed to be that color, Dean."

"Son of a bitch!" Dean cursed and tossed the bubbling, scorched mess of oozing red pastry onto the countertop with a resounding, defeated bang. "What went wrong?"

"You burned it."

"I didn't burn it. _You _burned it," he shot at the angel, who shook his head.

"I hardly think it's my fault."

"What did you put the oven temperature on?"

"475."

"It was supposed to be 425!"

"I thought it would cook faster that way," Cas said and then frowned at the ruined pie. "I believe I was wrong."

"Dammit," Dean sighed, sinking back on his elbows on the counter. "I just wanted some freaking pie! I never get to have any freaking pie!"

"I'm sorry, Dean."

He lifted a hand and waved him off. "Don't even worry about it, man. It's just a pie. We'll try again tomorrow. Or maybe I'll just go buy one."

"For what it's worth, I enjoyed baking with you. It felt good," Cas said honestly. Dean turned on him and pulled little smile, and then glanced down at the angel's apron.

"I'm not kissing you."

Cas looked down at the apron and then back up at him. "Of course not." He nodded solemnly and then walked toward the doorway, then stopped. "But only because I burned your pie, correct?"

Dean stiffened for a moment and then cleared his throat. Cas's lips curled at the corners and he walked out of the kitchen, leaving Dean standing there alone. He stared at the doorway, chewing on his lower lip for about ten minutes, lost in thought.

Finally, he turned back to the burned, oozing cherry pie. He picked up a fork and prodded it as he pursed his lips. He broke through the charred crust and lifted a mouthful, studying it with forlorn disappointment.

"Fuck it. I'll just pretend it's Cajun-style," he said with a shrug and popped it into his mouth.

Even burned pie was better than no pie at all.

_(end)_


End file.
